


Trying to sedate my mind in its cage

by macwritesthings



Series: What We Both Need [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom/sub, Dominant Armie, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Submissive Timothée, universe-compliant rules and language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-21 11:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macwritesthings/pseuds/macwritesthings
Summary: Timothee Chalamet is twenty-four years, ten months, and two weeks old, an up and coming darling in the art world, decidedly awkward and endearing, and a registered submissive. As such, he has six weeks (due to outdated submissive restricting laws that he, personally, thinks are bullshit) to find himself a registered dominant and be bonded to them, through marriage or a long-term contract. He knows he’s pretty enough to get suitors, and the letters have been pouring in since his first magazine feature, but they’re all the same—brutish, overbearing doms who just want him for his beauty and nothing else. But he’s getting desperate—desperate enough to start responding to some of the letters, which is how he finds Armand “but my friends call me Armie” Hammer, heir to a company, seemingly laid-back, and a smile that has graced the cover of Forbes more times than Timmy can count. (Who is he kidding, he can count them, they’re all hidden under his bed because the man is gorgeous. And apparently wants to court him.)(This draws some inspiration from the lovely "Like Sugar" by luninosity. I loved the BDSM AU idea so much I decided to give it a go and try to build my own world!)





	1. Without Changing a Part of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Like O, Like H](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820722) by [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity). 



> Hello all! This is my first foray into this fandom, so I'm hoping I do this justice. This idea has been rattling around in my head for a long time, so I'm giving it a go. Updates will be weekly, minimum, but may be faster depending on how quickly I can get things onto paper. Thank you to everyone on tumblr who encouraged me to post this, I appreciate you guys a lot. 
> 
> The rating will be updated as the story gets deeper into their relationship. This is going to be one of the slowest of burns. Work/chapter titles taken from "Heaven" by Troye Sivan.

_Timothee_

He’s sitting at his usual table at his usual cafe when he feels someone come up behind him. Trying not to bristle, he shifts slightly, curls falling in his eyes when he glances up, one hand braced on the sketchbook in front of him, the other flicking ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Yes?” he inquires, polite smile on his features. Being bothered is somewhat of a normal occurrence here, on his home turf--he’s recognizable enough that people sometimes come over to ask him about his artwork, but sometimes it’s doms, seeing the bracelet on his wrist, knowing he’s unclaimed. Coming over to see if he’ll bite at whatever offer they have. In this case, he thinks it’s the latter. The man in front of him is brutish, dark eyebrows drawn in a frown over his eyes, arms crossed before he gestures to the cigarette Timmy is holding. 

“Does your dom know you’re out alone? And engaging in restricted activities?” Timmy resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead keeping the polite smile in place, turning over his wrist so the name stamped there is visible, the small glint of the microchip winking out.

“My head of house is my registered dominant. And I have the proper paperwork to be smoking. You can scan, if you’d like,” he offers, trying not to seethe with resentment that he can’t even smoke a fucking cigarette and sketch in peace without some moron traditionalist jumping down his throat, as though being submissive gives some stranger the right to forgo all his privacy, scan a chip on a bracelet he’s required to wear, and know everything about what he is and isn’t allowed to do. 

But, of course, that’s the way the world works. Being submissive _does_ mean that he gives up some semblance of privacy, that he can be questioned whenever people feel like it, that he needs permission encoded into the leather strip circling his wrist, someone’s name on him, claiming him. Means that, technically, he has barely any rights of his own, even though submissive’s rights have come a long way even in the time since he was born.

But, of course, the traditionalists don’t care about that. The one in front of him, it seems, included, as he pulls out a mini-scanner and holds it over Timmy’s bracelet, watching it intently as his list of permissions flashes across the screen. Timothee, for his part, holds still, barely moving, barely breathing, well aware that the trouble-causing cigarette is burning down in his fingers, but he’s alone here, and although the baristas know him by name, he knows they’re baselines. They won’t get in the way of a scuffle, here, just call his head of household. When the dom seems satisfied, stuffing the mini-scanner back in his pocket, Timmy tips his head, pushing his hair back with his free fingers before putting the cigarette back to his lips, almost defiantly. 

“Everything seems in order,” the dom says, eyes narrowed on Timmy’s face as he inhales, blowing a thin stream of smoke out as slowly as he possibly can. He’s not saying anything, not engaging, technically, but it’s the most passive-aggressive he’s ever exhaled cigarette smoke, and the dom seems to pick up on it. “Are you in need of escort back to your residence? Your curfew is shortly.” Timmy sighs a little, this time literally biting his tongue to avoid a remark that will land him with (another) fine, and instead just stands, shaking his head.

“I’m fine, thank you. My sister is picking me up, and I see her car now,” he glances out the window, not seeing Pauline’s car at all, but knowing she’ll be there soon enough. “Thank you for the offer, though.” He’s gathering his pencils and sketchbook when a large hand comes down on the cover of the book, stilling all Timmy’s movements. He looks up through the hair in his eyes at the man in front of him. He doesn’t move, keeps his head bowed, holds himself as still as possible. The dom finally nods and moves off, and Timmy waits until he’s out of sight before he lets his hands shake a little. Shoving his things in his bag, he heads outside to wait for Pauline.

\------------

He’d shown signs of being a submissive from a young age, but even without the outward signs, he would have known. There’d always been something there, under his skin, a need to _useful_ , to be _good_ in a way he didn’t see in his sister, or his parents. He knew about submissives and dominants, of course--history lessons at school taught him things, and children talk, even when their parents think they don’t. Pauline had gone through the testing at age twelve, as was mandatory, and had been labeled dominant. Timmy hadn’t been surprised--she was always so much more outgoing, so much more confident and sure of herself than he was. Not to say that those were simply dominant traits, but it was something about the way she executed those traits that set her apart. She was bright smiles and soothing fingers through his hair when he brought her clean laundry when their mom asked him to, holding him against her side during movies when he got scared to calm him down, telling him gently to do things when he got distressed about being _asked_ to do them. That, above all else, was telling, even if nothing else was.

He’d always been eager to please, to do what was asked of him, flushing from praise when it was given, his eyes bright and slightly unfocused, the softest form of subspace. When he was tested, it barely took the administrators ten minutes to decide his orientation. He was given the standard corded bracelet, marking him as a minor submissive under the care of his head of household, and was registered as his official orientation. The bracelet was nice, grounding. More and more children at school got them, although not everyone, and some didn’t test as any orientation at all, neither dominant or submissive, baselines, moving through life in a bit more of a balance than the rest of them. The bracelet never made him feel weak, or different, because he knew it gave him a sort of power. People cherished submissives, and Timmy liked being good, being cherished. 

Of course, there were problems. There were bullies, the occasional child who would push him around or give him orders simply because disobeying made him physically uncomfortable, made his head swim, his stomach turn, tears prick hot at the corner of his eyes. Not being good enough was always a fear, but disobeying direct orders was a worse one, even when he knew he didn’t _have_ to listen to anyone but his head of household. When he’d told his mother, his registered head of household, what was happening, she’d given him one of her very rare direct orders: to never listen to direct orders from anyone other than his teachers or immediate family. It helped, but it didn’t make children stop trying. 

Everyone said submissives were weak, needed punishments and rules to keep them in line, and that was confusing. He wasn’t weak--he played baseball all through high school, was the MVP his junior year, had friends who were dominants and submissives alike. Timmy knew he was lucky, lucky enough to live in a relatively liberal part of town, go to a relatively liberal high school, have parents who’d fought hard for submissive’s rights even though his mother was a dominant and his father was baseline. He knew not every submissive child had the life he did--rarely given direct orders, and not put through any formal, traditionalist training until he was in college. His parents encouraged the things he liked, gave him drawing lessons, bought him art supplies, his mother giving him permission to attend NYU when he was accepted, corded bracelet traded out for a leather one when he turned eighteen, a sign that he was of age but still under his head of household. 

When he had his first showing, at a studio party when he was twenty, he’d been shaking so badly Pauline had had to hold his hand the entire time, keeping pressure on the back of his neck with her free hand, helping ground him, keep him steady. That was the first time he’d truly felt overwhelmed afterwards, actively felt like he _needed_ something to help him come down from the state he’d been worked into. The first time, he thought, that he was honestly aware of just how much he craved being able to submit to someone. Within a year, he was the art world’s darling, paintings bought and sold at private auctions, his name becoming something people recognized within two years, and by the time he was twenty-three, he’d made enough to be able to live independently--or would have been able to, if submissives were allowed to have control over their own funds.

Since he wasn’t bonded, his mother was still in charge of his finances, but she gave him a long rein when it came to that sort of thing. He still lived at home, but his parents had the attic level converted into a sort of loft for him, a place he could paint and be alone and think. They granted him permission to be out alone, to smoke because he said it helped calm him down, give him something to focus on. They gave him an approved card linked to the bank account where his earnings were kept, a monthly allowance because that was all he was allowed, but it was something. It was a semblance of freedom. 

And now he had six weeks to find someone to bond with or be forced into a bond with god only knew who, the possibility of all the freedom taken away from him.

\------------

When Pauline dropped him off at home, he headed to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around his mother’s waist where she sat at the table, dropping his head to nuzzle her neck, smiling when she patted one hand through his hair absently. 

“We had dinner,” she informed him, not looking up from her papers, “but there’s leftovers in the fridge. Make sure you eat vegetables.” He rolled his eyes behind her back, heading to the fridge and stopping when he saw the stack of letters on the counter.

“More from potential suitors?” he asked, tone light, but his mother knew him too well. She turned to look at him then, gaze sympathetic.

“Yes. Not all of them seem awful. Those are just the ones that seemed tolerable. The others I’ve already written back to, telling them thank you, but no.” Timmy nodded--as his dominant of record, it was her right to read his mail, but he was grateful that this, at least, she took the bulk of the responsibility for. Six weeks wasn’t enough time, and he’d put it off for too long. Ignoring the letters while he fixed himself food, he just kept his focus on the task in front of him, dutifully putting asparagus on his plate as he’d been instructed.

He ate across from his mother, the letters in his peripheral view, his eyes flicking to them every so often of their own volition. She was working, and he didn’t want to disturb her, but didn’t want to be alone with the words of strangers just yet. He took his time after eating, washing each dish methodically, drying them until he swore he was rubbing the finish off the plates, and putting everything away meticulously. He seriously considered rearranging the cupboards just for something to do when he looked over at his mother, saw her watching him, one eyebrow raised.

“Okay,” he said, sounding more nervous than he wanted. “I’m taking them. I’m going.” He grabbed the stack from the counter, kissing her cheek as he passed her, loping up the stairs to his room, where he closed the door before settling on the floor, spreading the letters around him.

He stared at the names on the envelopes, chewing the inside of his lip, one hand tracing the bracelet snug on his wrist. He could do them alphabetically, or in order of nicest handwriting, or post-date….

And he was just delaying the inevitable at this point. Sighing, he grabbed a letter at random, tugging the paper out and smoothing it on his leg to read.

_Timothee,_

_Perhaps that’s too formal of me. Mr. Chalamet, however, makes you sound as though you’re somehow elderly, and that’s not quite correct, either. I’m not going to be one of those dominants who refer to submissives as “subs” in every correspondence, however, so I hope Timothee is alright._

_I saw your exhibition in Chelsea last night and was blown away by what I saw. It’s not often that art actually speaks to me, much less makes any sense to me, but everything you painted had something to say, and I felt like I was supposed to be there, listening to it. That sounds a bit contrived, now that I’m reading it, but it’s better to be honest than not._

_I’ve never done this before. I haven’t ever been intrigued enough to reach out to write a letter of this sort, one with….intent. I don’t know yet what my intentions might be, if I’m being completely honest, because I’m just riding the experience of seeing your paintings. I’d like to get to know the person behind them, if that’s something you’re open to. It doesn’t even need to go farther than that--I am a registered dominant, yes, but I would also be open to being your friend, if you needed one. Even just to have the opportunity to ask you about some of the paintings would be an honor._

_I purchased one, on a whim. Woods, covered in a mist, with a figure barely visible in the background, as though they’re waiting for someone. I couldn’t stop looking at it, so now it’s hanging in the den. I’ve looked at it ten times during the course of this letter. I’d like to be able to hear what it’s like to see those images, to have the wherewithal to create them._

_My apologies if this has gone on too long. I look forward to a reply, from you or your head of household._

_Sincerely,  
Armand Hammer (but my friends call me Armie)_

Timmy stared at the letter he was holding, fingers reaching out to trace the words on the page. Read the letter again, small smile forming as he did so, warmth spreading through his stomach up his chest, until he swore he was glowing from it. This was unlike any other letter he’d ever received--it wasn’t even an offer of courtship, it was just….someone talking to him like he was human. Like he was an equal, like his thoughts mattered. He’d never received anything like this from a dominant before, and never one from someone as prominent as Armand “but my friends call me Armie” Hammer. The man was the heir to one of the biggest conglomerates in the states, seen with a different, pretty submissive on his arm every couple of months. Famous for not knowing when to keep his mouth shut and spending equal amounts of money on parties and charities. And he’d bought one of Timmy’s paintings. 

He scanned the letter again, noting the email address at the bottom. Shoving the other letters aside, he padded over to his desk, opening his laptop and then tapping his fingers against his mouth for a moment, thinking. Finally, he took a breath and, copying his mother on the email, composed a response.

_Dear Armie,_

_Timothee is fine. Thank you for the letter--perhaps I should have said that first. Maybe I should start again. I’m not very good at this, honestly. I’m not used to dominants talking to me like I’m a person, unless they’re my sister (who doesn’t count because she’s a brat) or my mother. I’m flattered that you liked the paintings. And that’s not entirely true, because while I am flattered, I’m also grateful that they spoke to you. So often people just see them as pretty little fantasies, and don’t really listen to them. So I’m glad you found one that spoke to you. And I’m glad you wrote._

_I would be open to meeting, and talking, with you. I’m copying my head of household on this so the two of you can coordinate schedules. I would do it myself, but I feel like I should probably follow some form of protocol, here, since I’ve already been sarcastic in this letter by calling my sister a brat. I’m looking forwards to meeting you._

_Best,  
Timothee_

He only lets himself stare at it for a few seconds before hitting _send_ , smiling at the computer screen as the email vanishes. 

He paints for the rest of the evening, skies the color of deep blue eyes he can’t get out of his head.


	2. Picture His Face Staring Up At Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this wasn’t like him at all. He didn’t _lust_ after submissives, and certainly not ones who were, most likely, looking for something serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who has read and commented so far!! The comments mean the world to me, honestly, and I love talking with all of you. I told you this would be slow burn, and I am......so sorry about that. It's the slowest of burns.

_Armie_

This wasn’t like him. Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true, since there wasn’t very much that he _wouldn’t_ do, honestly, for the publicity or just because he wanted to, but in this case, his actions weren’t like him. He didn’t approach submissives, usually, they approached him, and he was fine with that. He was fine with the list of willing submissives his assistant kept, the short-term contracts that never lasted more than a month, the easy rule negotiations and routine that only changed based on who was in his bed with him. He enjoyed being the public face of the company he was set to inherit, but more, he enjoyed the work, enjoyed not being permanently bonded to a submissive, as that meant more work than he was willing to put in at the moment. He enjoyed the easy, the simple when it came to personal relationships. He knew it had garnered him somewhat of a reputation of a playboy, but that didn’t bother him. The money he spent (gladly, deservingly so) on his charities of choice more than quieted most of the rumors, and the rest of them he didn’t listen to. So contacting a submissive, an unbonded one at that, and asking to meet with him? No, not like him.

And it wasn’t like, Armie thought, he was some sort of extremely uptight traditionalist about these sorts of things, believing that submissives should come to him if he showed any sort of interest--he honestly hadn’t expected a response from Timothee Chalamet _or_ his head of household, since his offer wasn’t one of courtship. From what he knew of the other, he was nearing twenty-five, which meant that surely he would be combing correspondence for serious offers, offers of bonding or marriage. Not offers of….well, he wasn’t entirely sure. Friendship, yes, but was he after something more? Armie had thought he could almost place the face of the artist while he’d been at the exhibition a few nights before, but only after he’d impulse purchased the painting and taken it home had he actually googled the name. The results, well….they were entirely pleasant. Dark curls that were more often than not flirting over eyes that edged towards green in the right light, freckles dotting pale skin and disappearing under shirt collars, his neck completely unadorned of any sort of collar that announced he was claimed by someone. He’d gotten a bit obsessive after that, Armie had to admit, looking up articles and YouTube videos of interviews with the young prodigy, noting the way he fiddled with his submissive’s bracelet or rubbed his fingers absently over his throat when he spoke. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t ached, just a little, to get his own hands on the pale expanse of skin, completely untouched and unmarked, and mess it up, just a little, to get his hands in the riotous mass of curls and thread them through his fingers, just to see Timothee’s reaction.

Yeah, this wasn’t like him at all. He didn’t _lust_ after submissives, and certainly not ones who were, most likely, looking for something serious. He’d been partnered with younger submissives before, but for the most part, he chose those closer to his own age, who didn’t mind paying the exorbitant fines to move from short-term contract to short-term contract until they found someone they were willing to bond with, or marry. Male, female--gender wasn’t an issue, but he had criteria. And it was just his luck that Timothee hit all the marks on the physical scale--slender, almost impossibly pretty, smile that was shy and guarded one moment and then open and shocking the next, laughing at a comment his sister made offscreen, animated when he talked about his paintings, eyes soft and dreamy. Hair that never stayed put no matter how much he fussed with it, slender fingers that held the tools of his trade with an ease and precision that made the brush look like an extension of himself. 

Armie may have been a little fucked. 

But he’d liked the paintings, more than he liked the look of the man who created them. He’d spent hours at the gallery, re-visiting some of them two or three times, having to mildly remind his current submissive that being mouthy about how long this was taking would result in some form of punishment if she couldn’t behave in public. He wasn’t a strict traditionalist, no, but he knew that rules were important, that structure was important, that punishments for breaking rules were important. And he’d wanted more time, to study the paintings, to picture them coming to life. So, after they’d arrived home and the submissive he was with had been instructed to kneel on the cushion in the corner, silently, for thirty minutes as penance for being mouthy, he’d googled one Timothee Chalamet.

He’d penned the letter later that night, after making sure his submissive was taken care of, not in a bad subspace, comforted by blankets and water and soothing words. He’d written it quickly, knowing that first correspondence was always handwritten, and paid extra for a courier service to deliver it early the next morning. He hadn’t slept that night at all, lying awake in the darkness and trying to get green eyes and dark curls out of his mind.

When he’d seen the reply from Timothee in the morning, however, he’d almost frozen. He read the message three times, in quick succession, his mouth quirking up in a smile when Timothee called his sister a brat, noted that he wasn’t following procedure completely, and shook his head at the tone of the letter. No, he didn’t lust after submissives, and he certainly didn’t lust after smart-mouthed, sarcastic submissives. This wasn’t like him.

Three hours later, on his lunch break, he closed himself in his office and wrote to Timothee’s head of household, expressing his pleasure in hearing back from them and requesting a meeting time. A reply came almost immediately, something telling him that they had been waiting for one, with three dates and times listed as possible meeting times. Glancing over his schedule, Armie had winced. He wasn’t free until the last date, four days from then. And while he’d wanted to meet Timothee as soon as possible, perhaps some distance would be good. Give him a chance to get the images of Timothee that his brain had conjured out of his head, give him a few days to collect himself. He replied, confirming the date that worked for him, and turned away from the computer, intending to focus on something, anything, other than this, than the slight amount of anxiety working its way under his skin. 

But as soon as the reply came in, he toggled back over to the screen, eyes running over the words quickly: _That sounds fine. Please meet at the location listed below, We’re looking forwards to it. Best, Nicole._ He read it again, noting the address of the cafe--closer to his office building than he’d expected, not that either of them knew that, but it would make the commute there easier. He noted the date and time on his calendar, copied his assistant so she’d know he would be out of the office and unavailable, and went back to work with a smile. 

\------------

The day of, Armie opted to walk from the office to the cafe, using the time to enjoy the city around him, the sights of New York shifting from one part of the day to the next, some parts closing down while others were just opening for business. It was one of his favorite things about the city, why he’d asked to be put in charge of the East Coast operations. Where else in the states would he be able to order authentic Indian at 3am if he was working and had forgotten to eat earlier? Where else would he be able to walk past mega-stores with little, thriving mom-and-pop shops nestled next to them, see the abundance of people strolling the streets, racing to catch trains, just living, existing, breathing? The entire city was its own entity, one that Armie had completely fallen in love with. He knew he was lucky--being a dominant, he had the freedom to explore it whenever he wanted, however he wanted. But he’d also chosen New York because it was one of the most progressive states, fighting for more submissive’s rights, for more equality for them, and that was a fight he believed in, regardless of what his parents said.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he ran one hand through his hair, sighing a little and shifting the bag he held in his free hand. This was _not_ the time to begin thinking about his parents, not when he was finally going to be able to meet Timothee, see him face-to-face, get to watch him talk, gesture with the hands he’d slowly become enamored with just from photos and interviews, see that sly smile that he let appear when he was being submissive but not--just bratty enough to have his own say about things, but not crossing so many lines that he’d be fined for it. Although, from what Armie had seen, he’d had his share of fines, and wasn’t shy about speaking up about how he thought the system was still flawed in that sense. It had been a long time since Armie had been this interested in someone he barely knew, had actually wanted to get to know someone.

He pushed open the door to the cafe, noted the small throng of customers piling at the counter, and scanned the room, eyes peeled for a shock of dark hair, the face of the woman he knew to be Timothee’s registered head of household. He didn’t have to look for long, however, because not moments later he felt a light touch at his elbow, and he glanced down, smiling. Nicole, Timothee’s head of household, was smiling up at him. “We’re glad you came,” she said, extending one hand for Armie to shake. “I’m Nicole. Timmy is at a table, in the back. I have one up here, where I can keep an eye on you two but still give you privacy.” That surprised him, and it must have showed, because she laughed a little, not unkindly. “I’m not going to control every aspect of my son’s life. That’s not how we are.” The statement was innocent enough, but Armie heard the underlying message: _and if you hope to have any kind of relationship with him, you had better not be that way, either._

He nodded, handing over the bag in his hand. “I understand. Thank you, sincerely, for allowing me to meet with him. A token, of gratitude.” It was traditional to bring gifts for the head of household, and he wasn’t going to stint on tradition just because this wasn’t a proper courting ritual. Nicole took the bag, her smile widening, and Armie saw Timothee in it.

“Oh, I didn’t allow him to. He chose your letter himself. He wanted to meet with you. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here.” She gestured, towards the back, and patted Armie on the arm before slipping back to her table. Armie took a breath, berating himself internally for being so nervous, before moving towards the back, squeezing between patrons until they cleared and he saw, clearly, a form hunched over a book, one hand keeping it open as the other tapped fingers against the top of the table. Timothee’s hair was in his eyes again, and as Armie watched, he lifted his free hand and pushed it back, letting his hand rest there, exposing his cheekbones to the light, the way his teeth caught his lower lip as he read, the shadows in the hollow of his wristbone. 

Armie was fucked.

But he stepped forwards, polite smile on his face, and stopped in front of the table. “Timothee?” He asked, even though he knew. Timothee’s eyes lifted first, tracing up the line of Armie’s body, and then his head, hand still in his hair, tipped back to be able to meet his eyes. He dropped his hand and grinned, gesturing to the chair across from him.

“You don’t look like such a giant in your photos,” Timothee informed him, holding out his hand, palm up, microchip flashing in the light. Armie huffed out a laugh, resting his fingers on Timothee’s pulse point before slowly drawing his fingers the length of his palm, tracing Timothee’s ring and middle finger with his own, before dropping his hand. He hadn’t really known what to expect there, but he supposed the traditional greeting was safest, considering they were in public and they were meeting for the first time. Timothee dropped his book on the table, facedown to mark his spot, and rubbed his other hand over his palm. “Sorry. I just….hate how that feels,” he said softly, and Armie shook his head.

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I understand, it must be uncomfortable.” 

Timothee snorted. “You mean openly submitting to every new person I meet because I’m not sure that if I offer to shake hands they won’t offer to hit me in the face? Yeah, that’s uncomfortable.” The sly grin flashed, eyes finally meeting Armie’s for the first time. “But I figure you won’t care if I tell you so, because you didn’t yell at me for calling my sister a brat. You can’t be that much of a traditionalist after all, then.”

Armie was surprised. “You mean….that was a test?” he asked, staring at the young man in front of him a little incredulously, and Timothee shrugged, bringing the fingers of one hand up to his mouth to tap against his lips, clearly trying not to smile. Armie stared a moment longer, then laughed again, an actual laugh this time, shaking his head. “That’s some test, kid. Traditional doms would have bitten your head off.”

“I know,” Timothee said simply, dropping his hand and folding both in front of him. “That’s why I do it. It helps me weed out even more potentials from the already-growing list of potentials. If they write back and demand my mother punish me for being insubordinate, they get a polite letter declining their proposal. It’s risky, but it works.”

Armie studied him for a moment, the lanky limbs hidden in a sweater that was clearly a bit large for him, the way his thumb caught at the fabric around his wrist and rubbed it between his fingers, the grip of his lower lip in his teeth. “You’ve never done this before,” he said, finally, and Timothee glared at him for a split second before shrugging, looking away.

“I’ve had short-term contracts before,” he said, fingers unfolding to draw absent patterns on the table in front of them. “But no, I’ve never met with someone who approached me first. No one really spoke to me until you.”

It was an honesty Armie hadn’t expected, a vulnerability he found, to his surprise, alluring. The fact that Timothee had sought out his short-term partners, that he hadn’t ever allowed anyone who sought _him_ out to meet with him first….that was flattering beyond belief, and also a little telling. The poor thing, Armie thought, was scared shitless of what would happen to him in six weeks. “Well,” he said, settling back in the chair, slouching slightly in an effort to appear less domineering, “I’m flattered, now. Who knew all it would take would be dropping thousands on a painting to get the great Timothee Chalamet to talk to me?” He kept his tone light, teasing, and when Timothee’s eyes met his again, he was scowling, but after a moment rolled his eyes, tension leaking from his shoulders as he smiled.

“That’s how I plan on hooking someone, of course,” he said. “Make them buy a ridiculous amount of paintings, enough so I can pay the stupid fine to remain unbonded for another year. Then I’ll cut them loose.” He started out light, teasing, but by the end of the sentence his eyes were back on his sleeve, his posture tightening again, and Armie hesitated only briefly before reaching over, touching Timothee’s wrist lightly through the fabric of his sweater.

“I am sorry,” he said, waiting until Timothee looked up. “About all of that. It’s bullshit, honestly.” When Timothee shrugged, Armie shook his head. “It _is_. I just….need you to know where I stand on that, right off the bat.” Timothee waited for a few seconds, then nodded, looking back up and meeting Armie’s gaze again.

“I believe you. And thank you.” He shifted, drawing his arm out gently from under Armie’s hand, and Armie quickly moved it back to his side of the table, fingers hot from the contact. “Well. This is depressing, and you wanted to talk about painting.” He shifted, spreading his arms out, tipped back in his chair. “I’m all yours. Ask me anything you want to know.”

Armie had to ignore the punch in his gut when Timothee said it: _I’m all yours._ Because he didn’t mean it that way, and they both knew it. So he just nodded, and drew out a notebook from his inner jacket pocket. Timothee laughed, a delighted sound, and Armie grinned at him. “I brought some notes,” he said, and that made Timothee laugh harder, made Armie feel as though he had finally unlocked some hidden goal: _catch Timothee off guard and make him laugh? Check._

“Well, then, Armand Hammer,” Timothee said, settling back in his chair more comfortably, elbows braced on the table. “Ask away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](https://sweetteatimmychalamet.tumblr.com/)


	3. Like The Rain to The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to focus on the notebook, otherwise he’d focus on where his skin was still tingling from Armie’s fingers brushing over his palm, the casual way he’d accepted Timmy’s offer of submission while also telling him he thought the policies in place demanding it were bullshit. Had to focus on the notebook because otherwise he was going to focus on the way that everything about the other man’s presence made him want to slide to the floor and kneel at his feet, and Timmy didn’t actually know that was a _literal emotion he was capable of having_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the positive feedback so far! I love reading your comments and interacting with all of you, and it's making this whole process so much fun. This hasn't been edited by anyone but myself, so all mistakes are my own.

_Timothee_

He’d brought a notebook. That was the thing Timmy was trying to focus on, at the moment: how incredibly endearing it was that the man, head of an international conglomerate, famous in his own right, capable of hiring people to explain art to him, had brought a notebook full of questions to ask _him_ , a kid who just….liked to paint and was lucky enough to have been good enough at it to be noticed.

He had to focus on the notebook because otherwise he was going to focus too much on Armie, too much on the broad spread of his chest under his suit jacket, the sharp blue of his eyes that was so much more intense in person, the way he _nearly_ laughed every time he smiled, as though the moment were so good he had to appreciate it in more than one way. He had to focus on the notebook, otherwise he’d focus on where his skin was still tingling from Armie’s fingers brushing over his palm, the casual way he’d accepted Timmy’s offer of submission while also telling him he thought the policies in place demanding it were bullshit. Had to focus on the notebook because otherwise he was going to focus on the way that everything about the other man’s presence made him want to slide to the floor and kneel at his feet, and Timmy didn’t actually know that was a _literal emotion he was capable of having_. 

He’d heard other subs talk about it, sure--there were movies and books and shows that explained the dynamics, that showed subs _wanting_ to submit to their doms, but since he’d only ever had short-term contracts, and nothing that was more than it needed to be, he’d never really experienced the deeper emotions of subspace. Plus, his mom was still his registered dominant, and the relationship there was much different. But he’d never had what felt like this primal urge before, this complete desire to just….submit. Settle at someone’s feet and feel their hands in his hair and just let himself exist there, content to do what someone else wanted.

He had to blink a couple of times, fight to keep the easy smile on his face as he fought against the lust pooling in the pit of his stomach. The laws, well, those were still bullshit, he reminded himself, submissives should submit because they _wanted_ to, not because they were _forced_ to, but in the moment he was having a lot of trouble focusing on keeping himself upright and in his chair. The worst part, maybe, was that Armie wasn’t even _doing_ anything to demand submission from him. He’d greeted him tradtionally because Timmy had instigated it, and then done everything in his power to treat Timmy like he was an equal, like the bracelet around his wrist didn’t make him lesser in society’s eyes, make him someone that needed to be taken care of.

Not that he would mind Armie taking care of him, he thought, and okay, that was not the track he needed to be going down right now. That wasn’t the point of the meeting, the point of Armie’s letter, the point of any of this. The point of it all was for Armie to ask him about art, and Timmy was, frankly, proud of himself for maintaining a casual demeanor, a smile on his face, even making a joke about the situation. He was still mentally applauding himself when Armie flipped the notebook open and lifted one hand to his mouth, wetting the tip of one finger with the dart of his tongue before flipping pages, and that….was not something to focus on, Timothee scolded himself. Absolutely not something to focus on at all, the small shimmer of wetness on Armie’s middle finger, left shining on his lower lip, not the time to imagine those fingers trailing wet traces over his collarbone, the place where he could almost feel a phantom collar sitting…..

He had to swallow, hard. Twice. 

His polite, interested smile was in place again when Armie looked back up, and he thanked every deity known to man that he was not only sitting at a table, but had worn one of the largest sweaters he owned, so that the arousal spreading through him wouldn’t, at least, be visible to the other man. Armie studied him for a moment, head tipping slightly, eyes just barely narrowed, and then the easy smile was back, and they were just two people, sitting at a table, talking about art. 

“First, then,” Armie said, voice a comfortable, pleasant sound in Timmy’s consciousness, deep enough to be commanding but not enough to be threatening, or overbearing--he was clearly aware of the power he could have over people, if he wanted it, and knew how to not take advantage of it. Strangely, that was even more of a turn on, and yes, Timmy needed to stop thinking about this right now. “The painting I bought. The one with the forest, and the mist? Where did you even come up with that? I’ve never seen anything like it around here, and I always assumed people just painted what they know. Kind of like that old saying, write what you know…” he trailed off, and Timmy laughed a little, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. 

“No, you’re not wrong,” he said, shifting to push his hair out of his eyes. “It’s common, I guess, to paint things that you know--that’s how they taught us, most of the time--took us to do landscapes or had us to still-lifes, figure sketches. Things that were in front of us so we could learn how to make them tangible on paper. In some senses, painting what you know is a good piece of advice, but not every artist paints the same things. I mean, for an extreme example, take Picasso--the man painted himself most often during his cubism and surrealism periods. And while, yes, he was doing self-portraits, he was taking what he knew and shaping it to fit the needs of what he saw it to be inside his head….if that makes sense?” he blushed a little, looking down at his fingers, realizing he was rambling. He didn’t mean to, it was just….art was one of the rare things he was allowed to _have_ , that was just _his_ , and once he got started talking about it, he couldn’t stop. He looked up, and Armie was just looking at him expectantly, and nodded a little, so he took a breath and continued. “So that’s what I do, I guess. You saw the paintings, so you know they’re….sort of dreamy, I suppose, in nature. They’re realistic, yes, but there are always elements to them that make them seem like they could be some sort of fantasy, or something that maybe was dreamt, that’s a just unreal _enough_ to give it an edge.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly self conscious, fingers going to brush over his shirt collar, and Armie leaned forwards, spreading his hands on the table. “You’re not boring me, kid,” he said, tone friendly, and he sounded like he meant it. “I said I had questions, and I wanted answers, and you’re answering the questions. It’s interesting, and I want to know. You could take twenty minutes to answer each question and I wouldn’t mind.” He smiled again, then, brighter and more open than the previous ones, and Timmy’s breath actually caught in his throat for a moment. “Besides, I like hearing you talk. You’ve got a lot of passion about this, it’s obvious, and that makes it interesting to listen to.”

Timmy flushed again. “I...yeah, I guess I do. Thank you. Um, okay so, like I said, just unreal enough. I tend to take places that I’ve seen or that I’ve been and enhance them a little, twist them just enough that they might not be recognizable, add enough of an element of the unknown to make it look as though I pulled it from out of nowhere. The painting you have, that place _is_ in New York, but I changed some of the lighting, the mood of the place. Added the mist, the figure walking through it. Each painting means something, and…..that one was actually one of the hardest to part with,” he admitted, fingers rolling a stray thread between them. 

Armie’s eyebrows raised. “It was? Why do it, then?” Timmy shrugged one shoulder again.

“Part of art is making it to be shared. I have pictures of all of them finished, so I can look at it again, but art is about making it to be let go, to let other people interpret them the way they need to.” He looked up, met Armie’s gaze directly, held it. “To let other people hear it speak to them.”

There was silence between them, for a moment, their eyes locked on each other’s, and Timmy could feel himself wanting to tremble under the weight of the gaze, felt himself slipping towards the urge to bare his neck, his soul, anything the other man wanted. Finally, Armie spoke, quietly. “Will you tell me what this one said to you, in particular, that made it hard to part with?”

Timmy considered for a moment, then finally shook his head, breaking eye contact. “I can’t,” he said, realizing his voice sounded just the tiniest bit breathless, a little shaky. He cleared his throat, took a sip from the cup in front of him. “Maybe, one day, but….that’s a little too deep for a first meeting.” He could feel his hand tense around the cup, waiting for Armie to push it, to throw around his weight, to go all dominant on him and find a way to make Timmy divulge why that one, in particular, was so important, but after a moment he saw the other man nod, and felt himself relax. 

“That’s fair enough. We’re practically strangers. I didn’t mean to push.” Timmy shook his head.

“You didn’t. I promise.” He looked up again, fingers tapping against the cup now in an uneven rhythm, smile a little hesitant. “You have other questions?”

Armie, he discovered, did have other questions. About technique, about making the images appear alive, about frustrations when things weren’t done correctly or well enough to Timmy’s liking, how he found the models for his figure paintings, what it was like to move between mediums, and time passed without Timmy really realizing it, his frame becoming more relaxed the longer they talked, his gestures more animated, Armie’s laugh, a glorious, full-throated sound, ringing through the cafe a few times, and each time it happened Timmy felt himself practically beaming because he had _done that_. He only realized the time when his phone vibrated and he glanced down, seeing the text was from his mother. He winced a little, grinning sheepishly over at her table, and Armie followed his gaze, his own smile turning apologetic. 

“We got carried away, huh?” he asked, and Timothee laughed, nodding. 

 

“A little. We’re meeting my sister for dinner at her place tonight, and we have to go otherwise we’ll be late,” he said, reluctantly gathering his book and grabbing the bag by his feet, tucking the book away.

“This may be forward of me,” Armie started, and Timmy froze, peering up at him through hair curling into his eyes, “but would it be alright if I asked for your number? I know your texts are probably monitored, since you’re unbonded, and I promise I’m not going to do anything improper, but I just….really liked talking to you, and that offer of friendship still stands.” He looked so earnest, Timmy thought, taking in the eyes focused so seriously on his, the hands folded on the table over where he’d been scribbling notes, thinking what Timmy had to say was important enough to take notes on….and without realizing it, he nodded, sliding his phone over the table.

Armie smiled, taking it and tapping away at the screen. Timmy stole a glance at his mother as he did so, saw her smirking down at her book, and resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders. He wasn’t doing anything wrong! Submissives weren’t allowed to ask for dominant’s direct, personal contact information, but if a dominant asked him first, he was allowed to have it. He flicked his gaze back to Armie when the other man’s phone dinged, watched him take his phone out of his pocket and tap at that screen before handing Timmy his phone again. “Now I have yours, and you have mine,” Armie said, his fingers brushing over Timmy’s when he handed the device over, and Timmy felt himself shiver, knew Armie had to have felt it, and he blushed. Thankfully, Armie didn’t comment on it.

“Thanks,” Timmy said softly, shifting to stand, Armie following suit. “I had a really good time. It was really nice talking to you, seriously. Friendships are kind of hard for me, I tend to sort of disappear into my work, but. Being here with you, this was nice. Thanks for asking me to come.” Armie shrugged, holding out one hand, and Timmy just stared.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for tolerating my ridiculous questions,” Armie answered, finally taking Timmy’s limp hand in his own and shaking once before releasing his hand, and it felt as though there were sparks under his skin, crawling up from his hand to his elbow, his shoulder, his neck, and Timmy finally managed to smile.

“Not ridiculous. I enjoyed it.” He turned to walk towards his mom, then turned back and smiled once more, lifting his hand in a half-wave. “Talk to you later, then?”

Armie nodded. “Later.”

Timothee felt eyes on him the entire way out of the cafe, felt himself warming under the gaze, the weight of the new number in his phone pressing into his skin where the phone sat in his pocket, reminding him of its presence. 

As though he would be able to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come vist me on [tumblr!](https://sweetteatimmychalamet.tumblr.com/) it's a fun time.


	4. Embrace the Picture I Paint, Color Me Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alluring, Armie thought, staring out the window in the darkness. That was definitely the word that he would use to describe Timothee Chalamet. And he really was truly, royally fucked, because wanted so much more than he was sure Timothee would want to give him. And in the end, he might not be able to give Timothee anything like what he _needed_ , so why was he fretting about it in the first place?
> 
> Title, as usual, taken from "Heaven" by Troye Sivan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments so far!! I know it says this is chapter 4/4 BUT THIS IS NOT THE END!!! I'm writing the story in parts, with each part looking at how the relationship is evolving, so if you want to stay up-to-date, subscribing to/bookmarking the entire series is probably your best bet!! I've had so much fun writing this so far and thank you all so much for the feedback and encouragement <3

_Armie_

He didn’t tell his current submissive he’d met with Timothee, and honestly….he wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t as though he’d done anything with the kid, as though they’d done anything but talk, long enough for him to forget the passage of time, get lost in those hint-of-green eyes, the expressions he conveyed through every mannerism, the all-encompassing movements his hands made when he got excited, the glint of the bracelet around his neck, the pale column of throat with a few, small moles dotting it, as though it were drawing a path to his mouth….

No, he hadn’t _done_ anything, but fuck him if he hadn’t thought about it.

And wasn’t that just as bad in some ways, he wondered, undressing for the night after his submissive was tucked in, asleep, standing alone with his thoughts in front of the mirror in his bathroom, studying himself as he undid his tie, shrugged off his shirt. Wasn’t just the act of thinking about doing something with someone he’d promised friendship to just as bad as acting on it? He’d told Timothee he wasn’t going to push for anything, and he _meant_ it, but the kid was so damn alluring, he felt guilty being attracted to him. Not just because he was a sub, either, Armie admitted, moving around the bathroom and tidying up his discarded clothes. He would have been attractive even without that, without the small mannerism that he doubted Timothee even knew he _had_ that gave him away as a sub before the bracelet ever would. The way he’d duck his head when he was laughing, as though asking for permission to show humor, the way he stayed absolutely silent until the other person was done talking, as though interrupting would somehow be a sin, the way he trailed off when he thought he was talking too much, or too loudly, as though he somehow thought he was taking up too much space.

The way he’d shivered under Armie’s gaze the first time he’d looked at Armie head-on, flush creeping up his neck from under his shirt collar, eyes widening just a fraction, the way he’d clutched at the table as though to stop himself from--from what? From moving? From standing, from kneeling, from asking something of Armie he wasn’t allowed to ask, that Armie hadn’t even thought of giving? 

(Well, that wasn’t entirely true. After the meeting, Armie had entirely thought of offering Timothee many, _many_ things, but he thought most of them would be too stereotypically dominant of him to assume someone might want after a first meeting, and the others were too inappropriate to offer after a first meeting, because greeting a new friend with the idea of how much you want them on your knees in front of you, willfully submitting to you, was just a _tad_ much.) 

Even without all of that, Armie thought, dragging on pajama pants and flipping off the bathroom light, Timothee would have been attractive. Physically, of course--the slight pout of his lower lip, the dark sweep of eyelashes over those fucking _eyes_ , the hair perpetually curling in his face, caressing his skin as though it didn’t belong anywhere else but there, drawing attention to the sweep of his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw that so glaringly contrasted how deceivingly soft the rest of him looked. Yes, even without the addition of Timothee being a submissive, Armie would have been attracted. But the fact remained that Timothee _was_ a submissive, and one who was cautiously trusting Armie with that fact, trusting him not to take advantage of it, and Armie found himself surprised that he would do anything to not break that trust, to have Timothee’s face remain open and vulnerable and pleased the way it had when he’d told him that he wasn’t boring, that he wanted to hear what Timothee had to say.

He would do anything he had to to make sure that Timothee trusted him, because it was clear that he, like many of the other subs Armie had met, hadn’t been treated like a person enough in his life. And that was another thing, Armie thought, sliding under the covers, shifting to get comfortable, that he didn’t want to accidentally fuck up--forgetting that Timothee wasn’t _his_ to casually issue orders to, to ask to do things, to assume that he might want to do those things. He’d promised Timothee friendship, and he was going to keep that promise. Even if he was surprised at how incredibly fascinated he’d become with the young man after one face-to-face meeting and watching a handful of interviews, reading a scattering of articles. 

Alluring, Armie thought, staring out the window in the darkness. That was definitely the word that he would use to describe Timothee Chalamet. And he really was truly, royally fucked, because wanted so much more than he was sure Timothee would want to give him. And in the end, he might not be able to give Timothee anything like what he _needed_ , so why was he fretting about it in the first place?

\------------

He waited two days before texting the number he’d saved in his phone, simply under _Timothee_. He hadn’t wanted to push anything, but also hadn’t wanted to wait so long that the other man thought, perhaps, he’d forgotten about him, decided against friendship after all. He’d just finished his morning meetings when he pulled out his phone, tapped out a text.

**11:58 am**  
Hope dinner with your sister was fun. You came up in conversation during a meeting today--we’re looking at new artwork for the offices and one of the board members threw your name out as a possibility. 

He tucked the phone back in his pocket, rolling his shoulders, annoyed that he was anxious about this. He didn’t _get_ anxious about things, that wasn’t something that Hammers _did_ , they handled everything with an almost patented stoicism that was bred into them from birth. He felt the phone vibrate only moments later, but ignored it until he was back in his office, lunch in front of him. 

_12:00 pm  
Yeah? If my name came up, you must have run through a lot of other names before scraping the bottom of the office art barrel. _

He huffed out a laugh, texting back.

**12:01 pm**  
On the contrary, I think you’re probably the top of the office art barrel. You HAVE seen office art before, right? It’s hideous.

_12:01 pm  
Wow….so you’re saying my art is hideous. I’m truly touched._

**12:02 pm**  
You know that’s not what I meant. Having your art grace the walls here would actually make looking at the walls bearable, because it’s not hideous. 

_12:05 pm  
I know. I was just giving you shit. Could get in trouble for it, though, so I’m sorry in advance. Probably. I have to keep some sort of sarcasm about me so people don’t think they can just insult my art whenever they want._

**12:06 pm**  
You’re a brat.

_12:10 pm  
I am, actually, yes. I’ve been told this on many occasions. I’m glad you’ve come to this conclusion at the beginning of the friendship, so that you know what you’re getting into._

**12:11 pm**  
In all seriousness, though, Timothee--would you be interested in coming to the office and talking to the board about your artwork, us potentially purchasing or commissioning pieces from you?

_12:20 pm  
If they’re sure it’s me they want, then sure. And if we’re going to be friends, you may as well call me Timmy. My friends do._

 

Armie stared at the last text for a few minutes, smiling at it a little stupidly. “My friends do,” it said, and that was good, that was progress. That was trusting him enough to not make Armie address him formally, acknowledging that this could be a friendship, could work, and when he finally replied, he was still smiling at the phone.

**12:24 pm**  
Timmy it is, then. Would you like to have coffee again? We can discuss the particulars before I set up a meeting with the board.

_12:26 pm  
I’d like that._

\------------

_Timothee_

He’d stared at his phone when he’d seen that the display for the text had Armie’s name on it, that Armie was _actually_ texting him. He’d scrambled for it almost immediately, knowing his mother’s phone was dinging with the same messages, and not even caring that she could see the conversation, he just wanted to know what Armie was going to _say_.

He felt his heart sink a little when it was just a comment about art, but at the same time, his stomach twisted pleasantly, and he spun his desk chair in a little circle. Just the fact that his name had come up in a meeting and Armie had thought to text _him_ to tell him, not just contacted his mother….well, that had to say something, right? That he was serious about this whole friendship thing? Smiling at the phone, he tapped out a reply quickly, then set the phone down, telling himself to calm the hell down. He wasn’t some over-eager sub, desperate for a dom’s attention. He could be casual about this.

(He could _totally_ be casual about this, and not focus at all on the dreams he’d had the past two nights about blue eyes staring into his, large hands holding him down, helpless to move as the phantom Armie set every nerve in his body on fire as he begged him to keep going--yeah, he could totally be casual about this. Totally.)

He laughed a little when the reply came in, and sent back a response he knew would garner some form of attention--he was sarcastic by nature, he couldn’t help it, and continued the banter yet again when Armie replied, still swinging his desk chair back and forth, keeping the momentum going with one foot, the other leg tucked underneath him, snickering at his phone screen.

And then.

_You’re a brat._

His breath caught in his throat, actually _stopped_ for a moment, all movement stilling, and he felt himself shiver, then, hands tightening on the phone and cock stirring in his pants. He had to actually slide to the floor, one hand pressed over his face, trembling slightly, and he tipped his head back against the desk and wanted to laugh, wanted to groan in frustration. So _that’s_ what that was like, he thought, shifting in an attempt to relieve the pressure of his now too-tight pants. That was….interesting. He’d never had a reaction _that visceral_ to anything a dom had said to him, ever, and this wasn’t even said to his _face_ , it was just via text, and he had to take a couple of slow, deep breaths before his fingers were steady enough to type again, teeth digging into his lower lip as he wrote, erasing three messages before coming up with one that sounded casual enough.

And that was that, he thought, as the conversation moved on, but he was still thrumming, still felt his nerves vibrating, liquid sunshine sliding along every part of him, warming every nerve ending in his body, and he had to focus on what he was writing because he kept wanting to just lay on the floor, curl around his phone, and bask in the feeling. This was new, and….not entirely appreciated. Yes, okay, he thought, he could admit Armie was attractive. And yes, maybe more so _because_ he hadn’t tried to out-dom Timmy, hadn’t tried anything on him at all, had treated him like an equal, had let him be sarcastic, had handled his bad jokes and had been endearingly earnest in his desire to learn about the process of art, had been interested and funny and charming and intelligent and wow, Timmy thought, actually laying flat on his back, wow he was fucked.

He glanced at the last text: coffee. Did he want to get coffee? Was Armie insane to think Timmy might refuse that offer? He replied in the affirmative, then just lay on the floor again, staring up at the swirls of color he’d painted on his ceiling when he was nineteen, trying to focus his breathing. His phone dinged. 

**12:28 pm**  
Excellent. How does Friday sound, say 7pm?

 

Timmy took another breath, exhaled slowly. Rested his phone on his chest. Stared at the ceiling. Picked up the phone.

_12:30 pm  
Sounds perfect. I’ll see you at the same cafe._

 

He was utterly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come join the madness on [tumblr](http://sweetteatimmychalamet.tumblr.com/)


End file.
